Sceadu Gelendan: ShadowLands
by Meldisse
Summary: The lives of an exile from far away lands and a cursed Rohirrim bloodline (that of Gríma) intertwine in the 200 years up to the War of the Ring. Told in an anti-traditional, non-linear way.
1. Memories of Years Past

Chapter One: Memories of Years Past (III. 3016)  
  
Edoras was silent and still. The air crackled with tension, uncertainty, fear. It grew oppressively greater every day, weighing on his heart, drowning him beneath the suffocating shroud of imminent doom. The only solace to be found was there, under the sky, peering up into the calm black. The stars shimmered in their place, the world was not yet changed. Yet. He sighed, watching his breath hover momentarily, a puff of gray against the night. Behind him, Meduseld sat, a premature burial tomb for the questionable future of the land and its surely ill-fated heirs. What would become of the Riddermark? What could the race of men do in such dark times; when all life and hope has faded, condensed into the singular pulsing of a distant star?  
  
Silent footsteps across the cold, ancient stones of the Golden Hall. The soft flickering of candles illuminated his pallid skin, sparked embers in his thoughtful, dejected cerulean eyes. On sleepless nights, he often found himself wandering below the seven heavenly bodies which made up the Wain, dreaming secret fantasies about the tales of anteceding years; about the Elves, wars of old, valor in battle, of the sea and desert and forests and beyond. He would never admit to another these very personal reveries, even if he did have a confidant to permit into his forlorn psyche. The harsh façade remained and his true self obscured from all.  
  
It was too late to change the course of events, and he knew it. A sick, empty feeling in the pit of his soul would open up on those insomniac walks beneath the constellations. During the day, his mind was preoccupied with the matters of Rohan. Or, in a more truthful sense, bringing about the decline and eventual fall of the horse masters. There were days where he wanted it to be more of a painful plummet, and then some times where he wished he had never taken Saruman's offer and had lived out a quiet and resigned life. Ambition and lusts of all variety and filled him with passion, though, and he was terrified of the outcome of the strife he had caused. It filled him with a delicious sense of accomplishment. That he Gríma, son of Gálmód, could bring the Rohirrim to their dirty knees.  
  
His father was a quiet man, a weak-willed man with a delicate, introspective nature. Gálmód had inherited his father's scrolls and books that told of ancient deeds and tales. By profession, though, he dealt in more banal and practical things than literature. It was Gríma's mother, Éorlithas, who read to the young man these stories. She told him of the lovely and distant Elves in their woodland realms, singing in foreign tongues. She told him of the fabled Holbytlan, hole-dwelling little folk of the west. She told him about the men of Westernesse. She told him of their ancestors from the northern lands.  
  
At the age of seven, he would close his eyes beneath harsh brown wool blankets and imagine riding on a huge pale horse through thick snow drifts. He was a warrior and scholar, an ancient king of Forodwaith. He did what needed to be done for his people to survive, yet was a caring and gentle man. Clad in pure white robes, tall as the mountains and strong as the Mearas which carried him. Yet outside of the safety of his dream world, he was not strong. He was small, and frail, with a demeanor much like his father. His hair was dark and unlike the other Rohirrim.  
  
At the age of ten the vision began to fade. The wind blew snowdrifts over his dream and new fantasies replaced the old. Children taunted him in the streets and his soul became hardened. His soul remained gentle but a shell formed, an exterior personality that was cold and cruel. His visions of a better life were all but obscured by his teen years.  
  
Gríma decided that he would defeat all of Rohan through words and intelligence, since he could not fight with strength and brutality. He would avenge the loneliness of his life, the tears he fought back when hateful words and whispered insults assaulted him from all sides. He would triumph over cold nights in the solitary darkness.  
  
His path laid before him, his destiny shaped from before his birth. Soon it would be time. 


	2. Out of the Shadowlands

Chapter Two: Out of the Shadowlands (III. 3010)  
  
Lómëí squinted against the waning sun, tiny slits of gray fringed with black fluttering eyelashes. Mirages shimmered on the horizon, distorting reality and bending the sights of the sane eyes. Her veil covered her entire head, the only bit of flesh showing was her shockingly pale hands, which gripped cracked, aged reins.  
  
Surrounding her and the furry black beast on which she sat cross-legged, there was sand. Dune after dune of white finely grained sand. Days upon days of sand. A smile crept to her chapped lips as she surveyed the landscape. She gently pressed her calves to the creature's side, urging it on with quiet words. It responded and trotted North; broad, leathery toes sinking only slightly. The Ata had long been a favorite beast of burden to the people of the deep South, where the horses could not tread and the Mûmakil could not exist from lack of water and shade. The large hump on the creatures' back store fat enough to sustain it for seven risings of the sun without food.  
  
She was truly a woman of the Harad, could wield a Khopesh along side the finest warriors. The first thirty years of her life were spent battling with the other children, struggling and eventually earning the respect of the Elders in her tribe. Her fight was not as a female, it was as a half- Southron attempting to make sense of her place in an intrinsically violent environment. Her mother shared stories of the North, of the peaceful but dark forest she was from, and Lómëí eagerly listened. She tried to imagine leaves as her mother described them: made as if of waxen jade, laced through with delicate veins, lining every enormous tree. And hundred of trees made a forest, thousands of leaves, all twinkling in the cool starlight. The Haradrim were distrustful of mother in the first seasons of her marriage to one of the men of the tribe, but after forty years living the nomadic life with them, they were at ease with the presence of a tall, lithe blonde with strange accent and mannerisms. For she had chosen to be one of them. If an elf chose to walk with under the skies of the south, may the sun embrace her as one of them.  
  
As darkness crept forward, Lómëí dismounted and threw her blankets to the sand. She reclined on her back and gazed to the heavens. The Ata sank to its knees and underside, making an unhappy and tired moaning sound before turning its large, kind eyes towards the woman. It was content to rest and chew its cud. She patted the thick hair, idly brushing off some of the sand while speaking kind words.  
  
A simple life was all she wanted in life, and her job provided that. She had traveled from the expansive frozen territory of Forod to the deep South and everywhere in between, from the lost mountains of Orocarni in Rhûn to the shining Great Sea to the west. Some called her a ranger (and mistook her identity as a Dúnedain woman.) Some simply called her a trader, a migratory merchant, a mercenary, a courier. She was whatever people wanted her to be; a half-recalled memory, an enigma, a curiosity. Her mother had taught her that the most important thing in her long life would be knowledge and benevolence. Her father taught her to survive.  
  
Of course, the Elves of Taur e-Ndaedelos had taught her the way of life as it applied the north. but that was after she had thirty years of experience in the desert. It seemed so strange to the young girl when she went to live with her grandparents in those strange woods at the base of the Misty Mountains. She was in awe of the trees, of hills and mountains and snow. Between arrival and coming of age, Lómëí was re-shaped in the image of her mother's people in Lórien and later Mirkwood. Her braids removed from her thick charcoal hair, her dark clothes replaced with silver and green. Yet her accent never diminished, even after twenty years of Sindarin flowed from her tongue. She deeply loved the Elves, for they cared about her and embraced her regardless of her odd habits. Yet she desired to return to the Forests of the Sun; to see the night sky again from the South, to dance beside crackling bonfires that banish the oppressive darkness of the desert, surrounded by smiling faces and to have her mind pummeled with the beating of drums. To feel the solidness of a Khopesh in her small hands and hear metal striking metal. To look again upon white dunes glistening beneath the pale moon.  
  
So it came that when she had fifty years in Middle earth, Lómëí departed Mirkwood and the realm of her grandparents to seek her fortune in the strange and distant lands the Elves seldom, if ever, ventured to. 


	3. Rain on the Mountain, Wind in the Meadow

[DISCLAIMER: I do not own the realm of Middle earth, nor any mythology contained therein. Thanks go to J.R.R. Tolkien for that.] [References: 'The Lord of the Rings', The Encyclopedia of Arda (http://www.glyphweb.com/arda/default.htm), 'The Atlas of Middle Earth' (by Karen Wynn Fonstad), 'Characters from Tolkien' (by David Day).] [A/N: Thank you so much; Phantom, Dwells in Shadow and Rachel Gardner! I appreciate the kind words very much. The title of this chapter references a poem in TTT. And more Gríma, coming soon.]  
  
Chapter Three: Rain on the Mountain, Wind in the Meadow (III. 2947)  
  
The boy scurried across the field, muscles strained, breath raspy. Tears stung his eyes, brought forth by the cool wind that whipped across his pale flesh and should-length hair. A stick was grasped in his left hand, right hand steadied him as he came to a halt. He coughed, raised the stick forward and positioned his feet, lunged at the frigid air. The ground was marshy with melted snow, mud splattered on the bottom cuffs of his pants and covered his flimsy shoes. Gálmód itched his nose with his free hand, eyes scanned the horizon, he was alone. The light would soon fail and Rohan would be covered in darkness.  
  
Invisible enemies assailed him from every side, he was graceful on his feet, seemed to dance in time with every slash from the stick. In a real conflict, though, he would have been slain. He was more gifted with intellect and had a proud poise. The dance he engaged in was a mockery of what he recalled grown men doing.  
  
He shouted into the evening air, stabbing and reeling. Gálmód was generally a quiet boy, barely into his teens, with a love for books and tales of old. He never had a desire to fight with the other boys and did not share the interests of his peers in joining the Marshal. No, contentment came to him in the rich tapestry of his creative mind. The only battles he fought were by himself on clear nights, far from his home. His mother often scolded him, but something drew him into the wild lands.  
  
"Hail, son of the Éorlingas!" A clear, but accented woman's voice called out to him. He spun on his heels, dismayed that someone had seen him.  
  
The rider, a slight woman on black steed, trotted up to him. She pushed back the scarf from her head, revealing a mass of dark braids adorned with seashells and silver beads. Her face was smooth but ancient, spectral in its whiteness. She was clad in strange black robes, accented with red and silver; her dress was slit far up to the thigh, revealing dark riding pants and high leather boots that laced up to her knees.  
  
She looked at the boy, immediately recognized the intense, sad, pale blue eyes. His clothes were dirty, his face smudged with dust. His chest heaved, cheeks flushed from exertion.  
  
"Who are you?" He lowered the stick to his side, became more curious than embarrassed.  
  
"I am known by many names, but I am Lómëí." She smiled at him, he was struck by her shimmering silver eyes and dark hair. He had not seen another human (was she human? There was something ethereal about her) with black hair outside of his family.  
  
"And I am Gálmód, son of Haldanor." He swayed on his feet, glancing behind him in the direction of his home. The sunlight was all but spent. His mother would be furious.  
  
"Haldanor, ays, I thought it so." She smiled, offering a hand from high upon the horse. "I will bring you home, Gálmód. Your parents must worry about you being away so late." He nodded, she offered a hand and he silently slipped onto the horse behind her.  
  
"You are not a woman of Rohan?" His eyes darted over her clothes, covered in strange figures that were similar to the Tengwar figures of the Elves.  
  
"I am a woman of far-off lands, perhaps your father has told you of them?"  
  
He was silenced at the mention of his father.  
  
They sped over the wet, rocky terrain at a terrible speed, he grasped her waist and closed his eyes, felt the softness of her overcoat in his hands and the chill of the night air whisper through his ears. It felt like a dream, not often did he meet strangers from far away lands. And not often did he meet friends of his fathers'.  
  
The woman ran from the dilapidated hut, worry plagued her eyes. She pulled a shawl around her shoulders as Lómëí and the boy approached.  
  
"Gálmód! Get off of there now!" She cried, clamored for him, pulled at his muddy feet. He slipped from the horse without a word, retreating to the doorstop.  
  
"He has passed. Haldanor is gone." The woman whispered, smoothing errant strands of grayed blonde hair from tired eyes. The Rohirrim woman peered up, wrinkled fingers clutched to her chest. Dirt under her fingernails, dirt on her old yet handsome face. She had been tilling all day and had just retired at the fading of the light.  
  
Lómëí nodded silently, dismounted her horse. A strange void consumed her, greater than any she had known before. Even more than the faded memory of her parents. Haldanor. Passed? In her soul she knew it was truth, her soul was blank and the hollowness ate at her marrow. Haldanor. All that remained of him, a name whispered into the dusk. And the morose boy who watched her with those piercing, cool eyes.  
  
"Haldanor." Lómëí gasped, barely audible. Her chest heaved but no sounds came forth. Only hot tears that slicked her face and reflected in the dim starlight.  
  
"Gone. Please do not trouble us anymore." Begging, pleading. Sadness wrapped the woman in a shroud. Léothan was trying her best to remain civil but still make the foreigner know she was no longer welcome.  
  
"I do not- I did not- mean to trouble you, Léothen." A warming wind came from the southwest and for a moment she was struck with such nostalgia she nearly forgot the matter at hand. When her eyes opened again, the woman and her son were standing at the door, ready to go in. "Please, you must know that I never meant to disrupt your household. Gálmód, I remember when you were but a babe in arms. That was the last time I saw you. At least I deserve to know what." Her voice cracked, she turned away from the warmth and light of the hut and gazed into the distant blackness of the horizon.  
  
"Regardless of your intentions, you must leave us now in peace." She pushed Gálmód indoors. The boy lingered a moment, his eyes met the cool gray of gaze Lómëí. She nodded to him, he retreated. Léothen glared at her, still grasping the shawl like a warrior would a shield.  
  
"I am sorry, please believe me. I am sorry for his passing and I am sorry for any grief I may have caused you. Haldanor was my friend." She wiped the tears from her cheeks with her scarf.  
  
Léothen sighed, visibly softened at the other woman's tears. "Yes, I know that, Lómëí. You traveled with him for three years."  
  
"Ays."  
  
He smiled at her in her memory. She felt his gangly frame behind her, hands shyly holding onto her hips, heard his laughter across the desert. Saw his eyes, the shade of the southern sea in the summer. His silver skin under a moonlit night as he slept. Those three years. There was no time to think about it, no time.  
  
"I have one question before you leave, though." Léothen pursued. "For what did he ask you to go into the South? What did he seek?"  
  
Lómëí considered this inquiry for some time. The wind shifted slightly once more, bringing a chill. The horse pawed at the ground, chewed at its bit. "He. He was hired to bring something of value back from Harad. I did not know what he sought at first."  
  
"What was this thing of value? He never told me of it." Léothen pushed further.  
  
She became uncomfortable, pausing for an awkward length of time while the woman raised her eyebrows. "I can not speak of it, not yet. Haldanor requested it be passed to his first-born son upon his coming of age."  
  
Léothen started, brown eyes burning with rage. "How dare you. Elves are not to be trusted, they say! And I believe them. You will not stand before me again, Southron. Leave now and never look back, for your coming has always signaled strife. Gálmód will know of your treachery."  
  
And with that, the conversation abruptly ended with the slamming of a door. Lómëí was in shock. Everything that night had gone entirely wrong. She was supposed to be meeting with her old friend and recalling their adventures by the fireside until the light of day sent them to their respective beds. They were supposed to feast happily on rabbit and cheese and bread and drink ale and laugh at the things that had seemed so important and dire when they had occurred. She had wanted to see how Gálmód had matured and perhaps even teach him sword-play. She had wanted to make peace with Léothen, for their first meeting had been plagued by tension. She saw herself in the Rohirrim woman, at least, had thought she had. Year had passed and resentment still dwelled in both of their hearts.  
  
Haldanor. Her friend was dead. The finality of the death of a man was, to an immortal, nearly beyond comprehension. For her young years, Lómëí had seen death much too frequently. She had almost forgotten that one day, Haldanor would pass. She had not been prepared, it was simply too soon. The mountains eroded, the trees toppled. Paths were obscured, stars faded. And men, no matter how loved or desired they were, died. 


	4. A Man Forsaken

Chapter Four: A Man Forsaken (III. 3010)  
  
Water dripped off of her hood, soaked through her clothes, slicking her already cold skin. It poured off of the horse, its eyes were pitiful and seemed to beg her to find somewhere dry and warm and full of grain. She apologized quietly, its ear swiveled around to her whisper. It had been raining nonstop for the past two days, and the novelty of this sort of precipitation had worn thin about two hundred years ago. Thunder echoes through the valley, rolled through the hills and rocks and marshy, muddy ground, through her heart and mind. She lifted her head slightly, looking to Edoras. She would be there in an hour.  
  
~  
  
Gríma stood at the window in his chambers, looking out across the landscape. The rain was nonstop for two nights, bringing with it a wet chill he didn't care for. Something in him desired dry heat, the sun and the way it tingled on his pale flesh. Delicious. But even if there were sun, he would not have allowed himself to make a spectacle out of himself standing beneath it. He felt ridiculous doing most things, very ill at ease in all aspects of his life. He was equally unsure of this prophesy Curunír had shared with him. It seemed too perfect to come to pass.  
  
His thoughts spiraled out of control and his mind plummeted into more fantasy. All the promises of the Istari, if he betrayed his people. They were not his people, Curunír had reasoned, and Gríma knew that this was true. By bloodline, perhaps he was Rohirrim. But nothing more. His mind dwelled in far away lands.  
  
He was a young man in the lives of the Éorlingas, a mere thirty six. Before he had come to the position of advisor to the king, the other men had mocked him. And surely, they still did, but behind his back and in spiteful whispers. His skin was smooth and waxen, pure as the fresh winter snows. The Riders would tell him he looked as an ugly maid, with his shaven face and spotless hands. That was the most gentle of the harassment he was forced to endure. Many of the men who had mocked him had been slain by Uruk- hai, though, and that tugged at the corners of his lips, making Gríma smile whenever the thought flittered across his tired mind. They would all die soon enough.  
  
~  
  
Lómëí wiped the water from her eyes, out of her eyelashes. There was someone standing at a window in Meduseld, watching her. And there were several guards at the doors, slouched under the eves of the Golden Hall. Her vision under light was only slightly better than a mortal, her true gift of the keen Elvish sight was at night. She could discern enough of the goings-on in Edoras, though, to be at ease and hope for some kind of rest. After being in the wild nearly two weeks, she was exhausted and weary of the weather. The prospect of dry, mud-free clothes and someone else preparing her meals was dreadfully alluring, even if she was bidden to not step into Rohan. It had been a long while since she had last been in those lands.  
  
The person in the window became clearer. Clad in black, pale as death. He was ink on a scroll, a crow resting in snow, a mourner. What or whom the man mourned, she did not know.  
  
Many of the Rohirrim dressed in dark clothing, but there was something in his trappings that surpassed mere black. With a start, her tired brain began to make connexions. And then he was gone.  
  
~  
  
He pulled himself out of his reverie and noticed the rider approaching the gates of the city, moving slowly and deliberately. The face was turned up and for a moment he felt the stranger looking directly into his eyes. It was quite disconcerting, he shifted on his feet and watched the individual's slow procession forth. Visitors in Meduseld would herald danger to he and his dark intentions. Gríma was yet extremely conscious of this. He would have to instruct Hámá to send them away.  
  
The kings' young advisor turned from the window like a shadow from candle, slithering down the stone halls. His velvet robes swayed and whispered around him, footsteps echoing every so slightly. The Riders were not in the city today, they were. doing whatever it is the burly, mindless, stubbled creatures desired to do. Hunting? Gríma secretly scoffed at them. A host of several dozen men versus one frightened beast was no sport.  
  
His attention was reclaimed when he heard other footfalls arguing with his own, his eyes snapped up immediately. The stranger stood before him, came to a halt as he did. The hood pulled back, then a veil, revealing the delicate features of a woman. Her hair was pleated in many small brown braids, water dripped from the ends of them. Her eyebrows and eyelashes clung together from the moisture, her lips were as pale as her cheeks.  
  
~  
  
She came to a full stop in front of the man, who appeared to have been the window-watcher. There was something keenly lovely but strange about him; yet dark, dangerous, brooding. He examined her behind ghostly blue eyes, curious. She had not seen a Rohirrim dress in velvet since. Her breath seemed to evacuate her lungs entirely, without her command. Confusion swept through her wander-weary and sleep deprived mind.  
  
"Haldanor!" She exclaimed, stepped closer to him.  
  
~  
  
The woman called the name of his grandfather. Gríma was shocked by few things, but a strange woman with dark hair and an Elvish air about her calling the name of his dead forefather sent him reeling.  
  
"That was my grandfather." He stood taller, pushing his shoulders back. For the first time in his life, he felt as though he towered over someone. The woman was quite small, delicate, meek. One look into her gray eyes told him her disposition was not to match.  
  
"Of course. Ays." She faltered, still peered at him quizzically. "Gálmód's son?"  
  
"Verily, m'lady."  
  
She was the Elven maiden, of course! His father had told him many stories. Gálmód himself had only met her three times. In his youth, before memory could form. Then when he was fourteen. And one last time when he came of age. She had brought something from the deep south with her, that Haldanor and she had found, something that was to be an heirloom of their lineage. It had passed on to Gríma many seasons ago. He was incredulous, had believed his father somewhat mad. (Of course, in his latter years he had been quite ill.)  
  
"What do you search for in Rohan?" He began to walk around her, drinking her with his eyes. He had never seen an Elf, and surely had never expected to meet the strange Southron half-breed that his forefathers had spoken of. His robes swished as he stepped, close to her.  
  
She felt the folds of his clothes pass by her and was reminded of what it was like to wear dry garb. He stood close to her, Lómëí sensed his warmth through her own chills. "I search for nothing, but I have found you."  
  
He pulled away from her slightly and for the second time in one day was taken aback. His lips moved to form words but none came out, only a tiny laugh. His eyebrows raised and a genuine, harmless smile washed over his face.  
  
The woman reached into a leather sack she carried under her arm, pulled forth a scroll bearing the white seal of Isengard. "So it is for two reasons I am fortuitous that our paths have crossed." She handed the message to Gríma, who took it in a shaking hand.  
  
"Do you know for what reason Saruman sends this?" He hid it in the depths of his velvet, still walking in circles around Lómëí.  
  
"No, my lord. I have no interests in the business of the Istari."  
  
"You are not the least bit curious?" He whispered into her ear. His breath on her cold skin sent shivers through her, but it was not entirely unpleasant.  
  
"Not in the least. Curunír broods in Orthanc, garbed in his white, surrounded by blackness. I care not for his designs, or whom he conspires with. Tis not my concern." She turned to face him, both of their eyes flared. She traced the outline of his velvet sleeve with two fingers, enjoying the softness and the look of surprise on his pale face. He was much more reserved than Haldanor, there was something wonderfully endearing about it.  
  
"Then you are a better courier than I could ever make." His smile faded as she toyed with his clothing, his breath quickened. He wanted to pull away, her gray gaze pierced through him like an arrow.  
  
"You have strength in your blood, Gríma, do not deny it. To yourself, least of all. You have a strong sense of fate and an active roll in shaping that fate." Her fingers found their way to his cheek, brushing against it so slightly he was not sure if she had really touched him or merely hovered over his flesh. He did not speak, stood perfectly still and watched her. It had been so many years since someone spoke tenderly to him and he absorbed her kind words, storing them deep within his heart.  
  
She was amazed at how alike yet dissimilar Haldanor and Gríma were. The grandfather had been openly adventurous, almost child-like in his innocence and fascination with things, outgoing but quiet. The man that now stood before her, making an obvious attempt to avoid eye contact. He was yet young, but she sensed a smoldering passion under that apprehensive face, a soul that someday would burn with the fury of a man forsaken.  
  
Their eyes met, pale blue battling steely gray. Neither faltered and she was even more confident in her assessment. They stood in the same position, scrutinizing one another, each immersed in their own private contemplations.  
  
A shock of lightening flashed disconcertingly close to Meduseld, thunder immediately rolling over them. The scent of ozone filled the hall, mingled with burning candles and the faint odor of the stew that was being prepared.  
  
"I must be leaving, my lord. I shall spend the night at a boarding house here in Edoras, perhaps rest here several days." A mischievous look danced behind her flat expression.  
  
"Yes, indeed." He backed into the shadows once more and with a swishing of black velvet, was gone.  
  
  
  
[Disclaimer: I'm aware that I not Tolkien and never will be.]  
  
[Author's notes:  
  
Thank you Ms Bibbit! Yes, the internet is quite distracting, I've found, as well. I get easily side-tracked so it's very trying to my nature to finish this story.  
  
And thank you to Elfsheen, as well. Yes, Gálmód's pesonality is going to match the name. I've had some trouble reconciling how I feel Gríma's father would behave, with what the name means. But I hope I have a found a way. It will be coming up soon in another chapter.  
  
In case anyone is wondering, "Lómëí" is butchered Quenya. "Lómë"= night, twilight, darkness, dusk. Í= female. The proper Quenya ending for female would be "ní" I believe but I wanted it to not be entirely Elf. Hence, I basically want the translation to read "Woman of the darkness" to elude to her clothes and hair, as well as her motherland of Harad, which is regarded with some (okay, a lot) of distrust and suspicion from the Free Peoples of Middle earth.]  
  
Resources: Of course, "The Lord of the Rings", "Asea Aranion" http://www.geocities.com/reto_steffen/eqq.html , and the Encyclopedia of Arda  
  
Some notes on names/spelling: Curunír is the Elvish name for Saruman. Ays: Elvish, "yes". I'm not spelling "Aye" wrong. :) 


	5. Strangers in Forodwaith

Chapter Five: Strangers in Forodwaith (III. 2924)  
  
Haldanor glanced behind him quickly, making sure the rest of the company was still within the line of sight. The snow was piling up in huge drifts with alarming speed. It swirled about him, alighted on his dark cloak and shrouded his eyelashes in a blinding haze. It hurt to blink. The moment when his eyelids shut out the scene before him was bliss, to see something other than the dazzling, biting glare of silver and feel slight, fleeting warmth slick over his eyes.  
  
He had no sensation in his toes, his fingers from tips to knuckles were numb. Though his head and face were bound, leaving only a slant for him to peer out of, he felt chill gnawing at his skin. He was shivering uncontrollably and every step he took filled his marrow with aching pain. Haldanor was robed in many layers of wool, but show that made it through all of the layers promptly melted and left his flesh wet and clammy. 'Dead,' he thought. 'My skin feels dead.'  
  
The Rohirrim man brought fire to his mind, coals, roasted fowl, rabbit over a spit. Water at a rolling boil. And still he trembled.  
  
"Éodreth! We can not go on in this!" An unembodied voice yelled above the howl of the blizzard.  
  
A voice Haldanor presumed was Éodreth's replied in a muffled scream. It did not take long for the company to realize what his excited voice was trying to say: ahead, there was light. Not the biting whiteness that swept over the landscape from ground to heavens- it was a warm golden glow. He would have smiled, if his lips weren't nearly frozen shut with blood.  
  
*  
  
The door flung open wide, unhinged by a man's gloved hand and encouraged by the raging wind. Six men in varying styles of garb lunged into the room, falling atop one another, clamoring for the fireplace. The floors immediately became slick with the melting snow, making the finely grained wood shimmer in time with the flames. The scent of cold and near death, the smell of soaked wool and wet man underlay the previous flavoring of the air. The miserable, shivering company picked it up immediately: stew. Some sort of delicious stew was cooking over the fireplace they huddled around.  
  
Many candles sat melting in sconces on the walls, filling the surprisingly large cabin with caramel light.  
  
Haldanor pulled off his hood, shedding the soaked cape. It was rabbit that was cooking. How the hunters in this barren wasteland had managed to capture a rabbit, he could not fathom.  
  
"The storm! It came from nowhere!" Mendelnir turned to survey the rest of the room. There were many other men, obviously fellow snowbound travelers. All had a weary, bored expression, were regarding the six new men with a glimmer of distrust.  
  
"Aye, as they do this far north." One of the men commented, pulling the pipe languidly from between his lips. His Westron had a slight accent to it, indistinguishable. It sounded like a blending of many cultures.  
  
Éodreth nodded slowly, still trembling. The clack of clattering teeth competed with the crackling wood. The men in the cabin slowly turned their attention away from the newcomers, immersing themselves in pints or games or discussion once more.  
  
The man with the pipe continued. "Where are you from?"  
  
"We hail from the land of Rohan, to the south-west of here." Haldanor pressed his fingers to his smooth cheeks, silently wishing sensation to return. Éodreth glared at him.  
  
"And what business do riders of the Riddermark have in Forodwaith?" He raised his blonde eyebrows. Passively, Haldanor realized that this man was a Forodrim, the forefathers of the Rohirrim. The same straw-colored hair and pale complexion; the same tall and solid build.  
  
"We are merchants, traders. Looking to return to the south with rare items." Éodreth sighed, collapsing backwards in exhaustion. "But we have found nothing, traded not at all."  
  
The Forodrim laughing heartily, but kindly, his booming voice seemed to echo off of every crack of the cabin. "Nay, I fear not! Unless you propose to bring snow back to Rohan!" He chuckled a few more times before continuing. "I am Éoldrew the Tall! And it looks as though your company found this outpost at the last moment before death."  
  
Haldanor nodded in silent agreement and opened his mouth to offer his name, when the door swung open once more, and one last black-garbed stranger stepped in. He stomped his feet loudly, shaking off the snow at the entrance, and removed his cape. The stranger walked to the right, going to the counter where (what Haldanor presumed) the proprietor was. Several of the other men glanced up to the stranger, recognition in their expression.  
  
"Lómëí! Mae govannen!" Éoldrew suddenly jumped to his feet and walked in huge, purposeful strides to the stranger.  
  
*  
  
She turned to see an old friend gating towards her.  
  
"Éoldrew! It is always amusing to me to hear you speak the language of the Elves. But, yes, we are well met today." She smirked as she pulled her veil down from above her nose, nestling the silky material under her chin. She peered about the room, noticing the six men who faced away from her, towards the fireplace. All but one had flaxen hair. The one on the far right had black. "Who are they?" She lay her cape on the counter, removed her overcoats.  
  
"They are Rohirrim. Men of the land of Rohan." His smile increased, something Lómëí thought not possible, given the amount of teeth that were already exposed. "They came north to find fortune and glory. They have found frostbite and hunger!"  
  
The Rohirrim with the dark hair turned slightly at this boisterous comment, the fellow looked rather hurt. She met his eyes and froze. He was no man of Rohan, she was convinced. He was Dúnedain, for he had a strong Elvish sense about him that she felt. The shocking pale blue eyes and coal hair were enough for even the most culturally unaware individual to recognize he was not an Éorlingas. He looked to have perhaps forty years behind him, a mere child elf. Lómëí tossed her overcoats with the cloak onto a nearby table and sauntered over to join him at the fire.  
  
"Él síla lúmena vomentienguo." She whispered into his ear. He jumped slightly, turned to his right with a baffled look.  
  
"I am sorry, I do not know what that means. Do you speak Westron?" He smiled tiredly, eyes shone like stars against the darkest night.  
  
"You do not know the language of your foreborn?" She was taken aback. "I was raised in the deep, deep South, yet I speak Quenya!"  
  
Haldanor continued smiling helplessly. "I am Rohirrim." Suddenly he realized what she was implying. "Oh, oh! No! I am no Elf!" He laughed, a full, musical sound.  
  
"You are a Dúnadan, then. But some blood of the Valar flows through your veins." The woman reached for his hair, running her fingers from the bottom of his ear to his shoulder. It was fine and soft but still wet.  
  
The other men from the company were watching them, all were amused.  
  
"Haldanor is no Elf!" One of them snorted. "He is just a weak Rohirrim."  
  
She ignored the comment, still whispering into his ear. "You have a structure of face and body that reminds me of my kin in Mirkwood." Lómëí was fascinated by the man, it had been many long years since she had seen another Elf. And if it took a man who merely appeared as an Elf to make her feel comfortable, she was ready to accept that as the next best thing.  
  
Haldanor was flattered by the assumption he was an Elf, a permanent smile seemed to sink into his lips and eyes. She did not look like an Elf, the dark hair and short build seemed reminiscent of. something else. He could not place it.  
  
"I am halfelven." She lowered her voice even more, leaning in until her lips brushed against his ear. She felt his hair tickling her face. "My father was a Haradrim. That is what you were wondering, ays?"  
  
"Aye."  
  
She liked the man, he was humble and she sensed a goodness about him that most of the Younger Children of the Ilúvatar did not possess.  
  
He liked the woman, she was gentle and he sensed a kindness in her that he had not encountered often, whether it be when he was days into the middle of the frigid wastelands or even in his own home back in Rohan.  
  
The sides of the cabin screamed and creaked under protest of the snowdrifts that had piled up, nearly burying the building. The candles flickered and a sudden burst of cold seemed to fill the room.  
  
"It is going to be a long night." Haldanor watched the door suspiciously.  
  
"The storm will last longer than the night." Lómëí continued looking him up and down.  
  
"It shall be a long several nights, then." He sighed.  
  
"Indeed." She smiled, kicked her boots off and pushed her bare feet closer to the fireplace.  
  
*  
  
[Author's Notes: It's a fun game! There's an Indiana Jones reference in here. **Upcoming Chapters- Gríma will meet Saruman, Lómëí will discover what became of Gálmód!**]  
  
[Disclaimer: I do not own Rohan or Forodwaith or any of the according lore.] 


	6. Minds of the Gallows

Chapter Six: Minds of the Gallows (III. 3010)  
  
He reclined on his bed languidly, closed his eyes. The day had been long, the ride had been tedious. Yet another thing that separated him from his kinfolk was his dislike for horses. For being such large, reputedly intelligent beasts they seemed rather excitable. Their black eyes filled with mistrust when he neared them, they raked the ground with their hooves when he took the reins.  
  
The wizard Saruman had promised him many things, had reminded him of all of the pain and anguish Gríma had endured as a child and still experienced. Now, with the promise of control and the gift of leechcraft, he would suck out the very life of Théoden and his kind. Gríma would endure the taunts and harassment no longer.  
  
The Istari had known what Gríma desired. The right to prove the thinking mind was greater than all of the Marshals of the Mark, that it could instigate infinitely greater destruction than a thousand mindless men heaving swords at anything that moved.  
  
And he fed an even deeper desire, fanning the flames of lust in Gríma's heart. He wanted a woman. Not one of the dirty, toothless hags that scowled at him in the town below. He wanted Éowyn, sister-daughter of the king. Not out of love and not out of cruelty, but out of something so simple and pure even he himself did not recognize it. He wanted to be accepted, and if he was betrothed to the very symbol of virtue and beauty of Rohan, perhaps he would be regarded in a different light. Éowyn was light in a dark place, both in his heart and of the land. She was life and youth and potential and physical strength. He brought age and death, weakness and a curse. But, Saruman had promised, once the War was over, Gríma would rise above the destruction and forge a new kingdom, one that prized mental prowess above all else. It would be a refuge, a haven for thought. Saruman promised many things. Gríma, beaten and starved, hungered, yearned for all the things to come to pass.. But it would take time. Slowly and secretly he must set the trap. Théoden would not fall ill for another several years. The illness would come about in such a subtle manner and increase greatly with every passing season. And then.. and -then-.  
  
He wanted it so badly, he could see it in his mind. When he closed his eyes to blink it flashed with shocking clarity. The lord and lady of Rohan. She in a silvery white dress, modest yet clinging in the right places. Her flowing golden hair pulled back, eyes shining as she looked at him. That smile.. yes, that smile of hers.. That he died a thousand deaths every time she unleashed it, his soul crumbled.. No more. She would smile for him and he would know that joy, finally. It was not love of the woman, it was love of an ideal, the ideal of being accepted. Accepted the way he knew he would never be, if not for Saruman's aid. Aid that he would turn to practice when the time was right.  
  
A new era would rise and the old ways would fall.  
  
~  
  
Lómëí sprawled across the bed, feeling the hay shift in the burlap beneath her. It was delicious to rest under cover, to have something soft supporting her frame. Candles crackled quietly on the rickety furniture, spread haphazardly throughout the small room. Incense burned, the smoke wafted lazily through the chilled air. The Elves looked at incense as something dirty and foul, the human races had no interest in the north. But it connected her to her father's people, and reminded her of home.  
  
She was often afflicted with a sense of nostalgia and yearning for earlier times. Before the chaos. Before the questioning. Before her parents had attempted to cross Gondor to head north and eventually into Mirkwood. Before the soldiers came, with spears and swords and crossbows. And her world was decimated. There was still the love of her kin in the forests, but it had all seemed so hollow and dispassionate. Perhaps it was because she was not fully one of their own, perhaps it was because she forced herself to be miserable. Once she came of age, though, Lómëí had returned to the South, only to find great strife and even more chaos between the civilizations. War was coming. Strangers were not welcome. Twenty years had passed, entire generations were leaving for the south-east, marching into Mordor. None remembered her, none welcomed her, and again she was alone. Not at home with pale skin in the bronzed lands of the sun and not at peace within the woodland realms with her coal hair and wild eyes, strange rituals and garb.  
  
So it came to pass that she journeyed for many years until she eventually had ended up in the frozen wasteland of Forodwaith and thus had met Haldanor, grandfather of Gríma of Rohan.  
  
Her mind continued to wander, ebbing and flowing over the years of her life. She dreamt a waking dream. And then.. and then there was Gríma. A fascinating example of a man, from her limited experience with him. In her minds' eye the face of Haldanor transformed into that of Gríma. Far less fair than his grandfather yet still with the same sad, pale eyes. The same dark hair. He was-  
  
A knock at the door sent the images crashing, light invaded her eyes and she sprang immediately to her feet, drew her Khopesh. A woman's voice called out in Westron from behind the wood.  
  
"M'lady? I bring water for you."  
  
Lómëí pulled the door open with her right hand, keeping the handle of the sword grasped in her left. The woman peered in through the crack, holding a basin of water. The door opened fully, she whisked in, nearly threw the reservoir on the nearest box and fled out, terror in her eyes.  
  
Was it really so horrifying to have a Southron in ones' boarding house? She began to shake her head slowly, sheathing the Khopesh back at her side. Seemingly out of nowhere, a hand appeared in the door jam and gently held it open. Lómëí stood back, curious as to who would be so bold.  
  
~  
  
Gríma tossed and turned, yet sleep would not return. Images raced through his rest-deprived mind, working slowly across the host of people he had known. Of his mother who had passed recently. Of his grandfather, whom he had never known but heard so many tales about. Of his grandmother, also dead and his father.. His father. His father who had been so weak and quiet, who had been executed for the crime he had committed. The Rohirrim had never truly appreciated his family, for they were all somewhat rebels or individuals, thinking men rather than acting men. Gríma was convinced that he would be the first in their line to take his thoughts and translate them into actions, actions the whole of Middle earth would reel from.  
  
The several winters previous, Gálmód had taken ill, both of mind and body. He had aged terribly in a quick amount of time. Once his spirit was weakened, it was almost as if he were the walking dead. And he had murdered, a pointless murder. There was no gold or glory to be gained from the slaying of an old woman, especially Gálmód's own mother. What Léothen, wife of Haldanor had done to her child to deserve such a death, he did not know. Perhaps it was nothing, perhaps Gálmód honestly was insane. Whatever the reasoning or purpose (or lack there of) Léothen was gone. And Gálmód had been dragged to the gallows, kicking and screaming and spitting, denying that he had acted out the matricide. Gríma had turned his head and left, had not witnessed the execution.  
  
Théoden had been kind about it, more forgiving than the rest of the royal family. He had overheard the King's words to Théodred, his son. To not judge Gríma based on his blood, but on his character. His character, Théoden asserted, that while odd was completely loyal the Rohan. Gríma hated him for those kind words, he did not want to look back, ever. He wanted to be lost in his daze of hate.  
  
And then, he was alone. More isolated than he could have ever imagined. No family, no companions, no friends. Abandon and orphaned as an adult. There were none to take pity on him, and his anger festered and grew until it was ripe for Saruman to take his control. Gríma already had the predisposition to betray his people, if simply for their ill-will and malice towards his person. But if he also had no support from those he loved.. he was a man with nothing, absolutely nothing to lose. There was Éowyn, yes, but she was promised to Gríma and he would protect her when the revolution came. He would not bear loss again. He could not. He was restless, listening to the soft rain gently fall.  
  
He swung his feet off of the bed, feeling the cold stone under his bare toes. His eyes focused on the town below, eyes narrowing in on one of the few rooms that still had a candle burning. Golden light seeped from beneath the door. It was the one boarding house in all of Edoras.  
  
~  
  
From the gloom, he slithered in. Still cloaked in his layers of velvet, he looked like a pale mask and dolls hands set upon a deep shadow. His eyes, the only color to him, glinted.  
  
The hand on the hilt of her sword relaxed, she sighed softly. Gríma looked to her with a perplexing expression, lingered on the doorstop.  
  
"Come in. The air outside is chilled." She motioned to a rickety chair that stood like a skeleton in the corner. Without a word, his eyes dropped to the floor and he slunk to the chair.  
  
"What is that scent?" His nostrils flared for a moment as he inhaled slowly, savoring the sweet smell.  
  
"It is something from Harad, that many of the people burn. It is herbs." Lómëí sat on the edge of her rented bed, feeling the coarse wool beneath her in folds. She looked to Gríma, tried to catch his eyes. He was still peering at the floor.  
  
"Please forgive me if I intrude.."  
  
"You need not apologize, Gríma.." She trailed off, leaned back onto the bed. He shifted uncomfortably nearby. "Tell me, what became of your father? I have not heard the tale. Does he yet live?"  
  
Silence. Rain. Candles flickered, wind began to howl. Her eyes closed and she focused on the layers of sound. His voice began, quiet and gentle. "I am truly sorry. He passed, many seasons ago."  
  
She nodded, presumed it so. She had no opportunity to know Gálmód, she took the words of his mother to heart and avoided Rohan altogether, or at least as much as possible. After all, the woman had been Haldanor's wife and Lómëí felt some sort of allegiance in his memory to be courteous to her wishes, no matter how ridiculous. After so many years gone, she began to believe that she brought a curse with her. The scowls of the Rohirrim at the borders warned her away.  
  
"May I ask you something?" He sat forward, velvet rustling.  
  
"Ays, what do you wish to know?"  
  
"How you met my grandfather. And why you are here now."  
  
Gríma momentarily forgot all of the matters of Rohan, and settled in for something he had not experienced in what seemed ages: a story. To hear about far away places, exotic races. The woman untied her belt, letting her sword drop to the bed, she pushed it down to where her feet rested. Her back rested against the headboard, ornately carved with images of hunters and horses. Gray eyes flicked to his, he was entranced. She began.  
  
  
  
[Author's Note: Sorry about this chapter, they will get better. It's about three in the morning and I'm quite tired, but wanted to get this thing up anyhow. Thanks, Alexa, for leaving a review! And Phantom, as ever, thank you! I respect your opinion very much and it's nice to know that you approve! :) In the next couple chapters expect Gríma's run-in with the Witch King and Co., as well as the adventures of Haldanor and Lómëí. If anyone has any suggestions, ideas or concerns- please let me know!] 


	7. New Stars

Chapter Seven: New Stars (III. 2924)  
  
Haldanor shifted in his seat atop the Ata, breathing stiffly behind the coarse fabric that draped around his head and face. Lómëí noticed his discomfort behind her, she turned slightly, peering over her shoulder at him.  
  
"What is it?" She, too, was covered in the same style of black garment.  
  
"It is hot." He said simply, bereft of any other way to explain himself. They had been traveling for several months, out of Forodwaith, through the northern lands and had finally crossed into Harad at the southwest border, along the sea. There had been a pleasant breeze then, but as they traveled inward over the past few days it had turned into a stifling heat.  
  
She smiled beneath her veil. "Yes. You will be grateful soon, though." Haldanor moved his hands from her hips, fidgeted with them for a moment before placing them back on her. They had been riding double on the Ata for several days and he still felt ill at east. The woman was cross-legged before him, seemed so natural on the large beast. However, the Rohirrim (even one who was wary of horses such as he) were more accustom to beasts of burden of the northernlands, and Haldanor was yet dubious of the gangly creatures with humps on their backs which Lómëí seemed to be fond of.  
  
He began to unravel the cloth from his head, Lómëí sensed this. "No, Haldanor. Leave it on." She reached behind her, patted him on his thigh. "Trust me." His skin was pale, the sun would harm him. And the deeper south they traveled, the risk of death increased during the daytime. His body could withstand the cold as hers could not, and her body could withstand the blistering heat as his would not.  
  
"I can not imagine being grateful at all for this.. garment." He laughed weakly, overwhelmed by the heat. Sweat trickled slowly down his forehead, he felt is working its way down his back and chest, his stomach, even his legs. His head swirled under the sun, his eyes burned with the humid air and the sand. The sand! He could not believe this land, so barren and dead; and the people, so rich and strong. Lómëí seemed quite content, occasional clicking her tongue and urging the Ata on. She raised her hand, smoothing the sand off of her face. She had lost the pale tint to her skin, darkened, lines had appeared and had very little elvish resemblance left. Aside from her gray eyes, one could have easily mistaken her for a Haradrim.  
  
The sun was sinking quickly, the sky tinted red. A flash on the horizon and the temperature immediately began to fall. A few stars glimmered above, breaking free of the darkness. Lómëí leaned back slightly, her back against Haldanor's chest as she raised a dusky hand to the sky. "Do you see the stars? The constellations here differ from the north." Her voice was hushed, she inhaled deeply and relaxed, slouching into him. Somehow the night was more peaceful, even with the chill and suspicious creatures about. She pulled the veil off, shook her braids loose from the neck of her dress, pulled the shawl from her shoulders. Haldanor followed suit, sighed with relief and pulled off the heavy cloth that was wrapped around his head.  
  
"This is the Me'esaw Alquir. It is.. it is the time between. Evening, is the Westron word, only our word implies something more sweet than the a simple 'evening'. Until the light fades completely, it will be pleasant and safe for us." She pulled the reins, slowing the Ata to a halt. As she swung down from the beast, Haldanor's serene smile dropped.  
  
"And what comes with the darkness?" He looked about himself, trying to figure a way down. She held a hand to him, her gray eyes somewhat hesitant. He slid from the Ata, stumbled in the sand.  
  
"There are some things you must not ask, not yet. We are still secure, we are not too deeply in the south."  
  
Lómëí spread a blanket on the ground, dumped several packs on it. She motioned for the beast to rest, her hand flat and palm down. It slowly sank to its knees and then chest with a groan. Haldanor paced, stretching his legs and back, wishing he was not covered in sand and dried sweat. The woman looked at him as he tried to rub the filth from his skin, and she smiled sweetly.  
  
"It will not come off, believe me." She motioned to her own face and body. "I fear my scent is no better than the beast." It was difficult to look at her and believe she was an Elf.  
  
He laughed, knowing that he could claim no different about his own state. They both sunk to the blanket, adjusting themselves between the haphazardly dumped side packs. They lay shoulder to shoulder, looking up at the increasing number of stars.  
  
"May I ask you something?" His voice was a quiet whisper.  
  
"Of course." She looked over to him in the dimming light. His cheeks and jaw were dusted with slight stubble. She found it endearing, had never seen a man quite like him. He did not complain at the inconveniences and strains of travel. He was a good natured companion, a friend when all others had abandon her. With every passing day, she was overwhelmed with how she cared for him and all of his peculiar idiosyncrasies. Mortals had always intrigued her and this one, more than any other.  
  
Her father and his people would be appalled if they had known that she was traveling with a Mniw-htr. From the time she was young, she was taught fear and distrust of the men from the northern borders, the Mniw-htr. The horse- masters, in Common Speech. The earliest tales she heard were of the Mniw- htr raiding the borders. They would take women and children, force them to be slaves and serve in harems. It was only after Lómëí traveled there herself did she discover that there were many lands of men, not all of whom were cruel-hearted.  
  
And then, there was Haldanor. A man unlike any other, in all regards. The dark hair and pale skin, the eyes alone had her to her knees at their meeting in Forodwaith. He did not look like an elf, he looked like something else, entirely, that she could not place.  
  
"What were you wishing to ask me?" Lómëí grabbed a blanket with her left hand and spread it over the two of them. He took his half, pulled it over him.  
  
"For what reason did you agree to guide me?" Haldanor turned, also, looking into her eyes.  
  
"Does it matter? You have seen lands you never realized existed. You have seen the stars under a different sky. You have escaped the Rohirrim and their distaste for strangers, even if the stranger is one of their own blood." Her breath came out in lingering haze, it was getting chilled.  
  
Haldanor pondered this, smiling in the darkness of the desert shroud. "I have enjoyed this, regardless of the items with which I return to the north with. And you will be paid for your time and effort in providing me with an escort through Harad, either way."  
  
Her laugh was harsh, but happy. "You will return to Rohan and Gondor with items the inhabitants have never seen, you will have money. You will be respected, they will have no choice but to respect you! Perhaps you will always be an outsider, but you will be a wealthy one!" His laugh joined hers, dissipating in the dunes.  
  
"Tomorrow, we will ride due South. You will see Teima and there we will refill our supply of water, we can rest for a while. There will be many nomads there to trade." She yawned, pulling another several blankets atop she and Haldanor. Lómëí turned on her side, facing him. "Morning will come sooner than we would wish. Sleep." Her eyes closed, within moments she was snoring softly.  
  
"Lómëí." He whispered. No reply. He wanted yet to learn so much of the varying peoples of Harad. There was not merely one civilization, but many cultures, a broad spectrum in custom, appearance, lifestyle. They were wanderers, they were farmers, they were warriors. They had deeply bronzed skin, they had olive skin. She must have felt much like him, growing up in a such a place, a myriad of races. Being a half-breed made her stand apart in a land of cultural identity as being an intellectual in a land of those only concerned with killing for sport and pleasure. She was not tragic, just as he did not see himself as being tragic. They were two people- well, beings, at any rate- who were trying to find their place in a world that did not have specified rolls for them.  
  
He watched her sleep for several moments before closing his own eyes and allowing himself to drift away.  
  
~~  
  
[Author's note: For about the millionth time, I apologize for chapter six. It was about five in the morning, I'd just watched Brad Dourif's character die (::sniffle::) in a really bad movie, and.. I don't know what my excuse is. I uploaded the correct version, complete with correct spelling and paragraphs that make sense! Please check chapter six again to make sure you didn't read the -really- horrible version. Thank you all for the reviews, and thank you, Gaslight for the Mary Sue Litmus test! I'm trying to avoid Mary Sueisms..  
  
The Indiana Jones reference was "fortune and glory".. From The Temple of Doom, I believe.  
  
I am basing the languages of Harad off of Ancient Egyptian and ancient Semitic tongues, as well as some blending of current Arabic.]  
  
[Disclaimer: Based on the works of J.R.R. Tolkien, etc.] 


	8. Unmasked

Chapter Eight: Unmasked (III. 3019)  
  
Mist swirled and eddied about him, parted for his dark shape like water from a monstrous creature, abhorred and hunted. He rode all day, set at a furious and haphazard pace, across the barren lands of Rohan, the fringed, tattered skirts of the Misty Mountains. And now, within a day of Isengard and safety from the dirty Rohirrim.  
  
Gríma's scheming mind was now tired and clouded from the ride.. had it merely been a day, or was it two? There was a night, certainly, or was it just a dark day? The chill, the moisture hanging in the air like the tears of an executed man, it all assaulted him, penetrated his many layers of black robes, gathered on his skin and made it clammy. Just as dead as.. well, just as dead as he hoped he would not be once he arrived at Orthanc. In the recesses of his mind he dreaded the reaction of Saruman to his failure, but on an even darker level, obscured by murk and cobwebs, he wanted the punishment. He wanted death and knew that he would welcome it when the coup de grâce finally came, in whatever form. He was a man with nothing left to lose, nothing but... but Eowyn, his prize, his acceptance. That could all still be claimed, though. Not all was hopeless. A faint murmur of hope swelled in his stomach, rising to his heart, but not his brain. He was so tired, beyond comprehension. Things seemed as a dream, even the throbbing ache in every inch of his body. Even the hairs on his head seemed to cry out in agony as the horse jarred ever west.  
  
He was dead on the beast, his eyes milky and half-closed, heavily lidded. His skin waxen and trembling under the horses' gallop. His formerly stately robes now disheveled and sullied by the mud and twigs and insects. His hands, dry and cracked. His lip, split and bloodied, bruises dotting his face and body. His ribs hurt terribly, more so than the rest of his body.  
  
But, the plan.. the plan could be salvaged, yet. Saruman would know what to do. He repeated this prayer in his mind, over and over. It was not beyond reparation, they would triumph yet. By whatever means.  
  
A shriek interrupted his reverie, something that made his skin have sensation once more- goose bumps spread across his entire body, his throat constricted as he let lose a tiny sound of terror. What had made that noise? The horse heard it, as well, and came to a dead halt. Its head thrown back, it wheeled about, stomping the ground anxiously. The sound came again, the horse reared and bolted. Gríma reacted too slowly to stop the fall, the ground rushed at his face with a terrible speed. The last remnants of snow were melting in that early March, making the ground muddy and soft as he bounced slightly. His terror not forgotten, he cowered there in the dirt of the wild, in fetal position, covering his head as if that would save him from the evil. Time slowed to an eternity, his eyes sealed shut and his spine tingled in the most unimaginable fear he had ever experienced.  
  
And then, there was a presence. Something fell- something large approached. Many 'somethings' large. His mind was as chilled as the air around him, his intelligence worth nothing in the face of the most primordial feelings of a desire to fly from danger. Loud clomping neared him, many horses, but too large to be the horses of the Rohirrim. Oh, how he nearly would have welcomed the Marshal of the Mark, himself! There was so little to fear there, save death. But these.. these.. whatever they were.. They were waiting, patient and expectant, for him to withdraw from his bundle and open his eyes. Gríma could wait them out until the end of all time, though, even if he had willed himself to move he doubted his muscles would comply.  
  
A dull sniffing began, sounded very close. More hoofs pawed at the ground and beyond all comprehension of why he did it, he opened up.  
  
Nazgûl.  
  
His breath seemed to be sucked from his very lungs, blackness crept in from the sides of his eyes. He was fainting. The voices pulled him out of the daze, though, for he knew they would kill him if he did not listen.  
  
"The land of the Halflings."  
  
Gríma could not comprehend, trembling in the mud and tasting the blood that pooled in his mouth from his wounds.  
  
The voice of the leader hissed out, "Saruman tells us, he does not know of this land? And what of Gandalf?"  
  
Realization hit him then, and he struggled to make his voice work. "Yea, yea, verily I can tell you, Lord. I have overheard their speech together in Isengard. The land of the Halflings: it was thence that Gandalf came, and desires to return. He seeks now only a horse."  
  
He did not give a second thought to betraying Saruman. All fields must be played to win at the game of war, and he would be damned if he would allow them to get the best of him. He would not be cheated.  
  
One of the Wraiths approached him, high on its fell steed, reached for the chipped, aged blade that hung at its side.  
  
"Spare me!" He whimpered, and gave directions to the Shire. Of course Saruman had known of that land, for he was exploiting it for the strange leaves that grew there, which he would pack into a pipe and smoke. "I will speak naught of our meeting to any that live!"  
  
They sat silently on their dark beasts, seemed to be looking at him. He continued cowering, tears brimming in his lids. And, for whatever reason, they departed, disappeared behind a thick bank of fog.  
  
For the first time in his life, Gríma was relieved to be totally and utterly alone. His breath slowly returned to him, his wits as well. He was happy with the outcome, for if Saruman lost favor of Sauron (as he most certainly would, due to the obvious lies he had told the Nazgûl of his knowledge of the Shire!), then Gríma's own alliance would turn to the Dark Lord himself. Sauron was more powerful than a mere Istari. And the likelihood of Gríma's triumph in the War of the Ring would be all the more great!  
  
After several moments of breathing deeply and gathering his mind, he stood on weak and tired legs.  
  
By some miracle, his horse had returned. Gríma stared at the dumb beast blankly, blinked several times, then approached it slowly. He cursed the creature in his mind, while thanking it all the while in the other side. He grabbed the reins and pulled himself tiredly back upon the saddle. It would be a long ride, yet.  
  
~  
  
The huge obsidian tower loomed before him, so much more imposing than he ever would have thought. The forestry around the borders had been decimated. A strange pang of sadness touched his heart. He had known war would bring destruction, but the forests of Isengard and the edges of Fangorn had been beautiful in their own way, and ancient, mighty. Gríma sighed. But, such things had to happen for progress to occur. He had a fondness for trees.. trees.. He stops in his tracks, mouth slightly agape. What had happened? Orthanc yet stood, but the walls surrounding had been torn down, stone by stone. Decimated, ruined. There seemed to be creatures moving down amongst the rubble, large creature..  
  
His capacity to feel fear had been pushed to the very limits of human experience already that day. And there was nowhere else to go, nowhere in the land that he could stay. There was the strange woman from the South who he counted a friend, of sorts.. but she would not want to help him. Besides, he knew not where she dwelled and trekking into the ruins of Isengard was far more likely than the thought of traipsing off into the far lands of Haradwaith as his grandfather had done. Haldanor's fate would not be his own, and he was not certain any more if that was a virtuous or unlucky thought.  
  
With that in his mind, he plodded onward, to his certain doom. Towards the flooded land of Isengard. The Anduin was set free, the fires extinguished and the trees, well.. The trees were swaying, he surely thought that was due to the rushing waters. Until he was closer. He gaped openly, face turned a sickly green and another small sound of shock emerged from his throat.  
  
The trees -were- moving! By what witchcraft.. No. He could not handle such a thing. This place was ruining, utterly, Saruman defeated. He could not stand to ally himself on the losing side any more. It was all lost, all of it. The horse turned, Gríma cared not where he would ride to. Just away.  
  
And then there were huge, hard, bark-like hands that closed about his midsection. Really, this was too much. First the Wraiths, then these unspeakable terrors? The horse bolted in fear, the creature dropped Gríma to the ground. He winced in pain as all of the old bruises were reminded of the ride and the fall from the horse at the opening of the day. He groveled, speaking quickly and loudly.  
  
"I am Gríma, counselor to king Théoden of the land of Rohan! I come bearing a message of dire importance from the king to Saruman!" He looked up at the tree- the creature- the.. whatever it was. "I was the only one who would ride out, even amongst the moving armies of Orcs, to deliver this message! Please, I am hungry, and weary with travel. I was pursued by wolves." He was so pitiful, so sad.  
  
Treebeard watched the man carefully, taking his time as the Ents always do. The man continued to squirm, his eyes laden with tears.  
  
Finally, Treebeard spoke. "I have been expecting you, Wormtongue. Gandalf arrived first." He smiled as only a treeherder could smile.  
  
Gríma recoiled first at the use of his moniker, and second at the named Gandalf. Absolutely, all was lost. That wretched, horrible Istari.. they were are wretched. As bad as men, they were. So ready to turn against you, to destroy your life for no good reason. Of course, the irony was not lost on him. But he shoved those thoughts quickly into the recesses of his mind where he stored other unpleasentries.  
  
The Ent told the man that he was free to go to his master there in Orthanc, and prodded him with itchy, harsh branch-fingers. Gríma surveyed the damage that lay before him, the Anduin washing his future and all of his hopes away. Damn them, damn them all.  
  
"Very well. Then let me go away." Gríma had tear silently running down his cheeks, his voice cracked. As an afterthought, he murmured, "My messages are useless now." He wanted to leave, the prospect of attempting a trip into the South were seeming more and more promising. Anything other than being there, with the talking tree and the odd miniature men he saw standing, observing in the background. It was like a horrible dream. All of it, from the point of his exile up 'til that second.  
  
And Treebeard gave him two choices. To either join Saruman, or to wait with him until Gandalf arrived. Gríma shuddered at the mention of Saruman, then weighed his choices carefully. If he were to wait for Gandalf, then what would happen? Could he bear to see Théoden once more? Could he withstand the eyes of any of the race of men, raping his mind and leaving him for dead? No, he could not. Saruman was his only option. And death. He stepped into the chilled waters.  
  
"I can not swim."  
  
"The water is not deep." Treebeard urged the man on.  
  
Gríma thought of his life. He thought of the relentless teasing by the other children of the Mark. He thought about his lonely adolescence, of his illnesses, of his quiet nights spent reading or star-gazing and dreaming of far away places. He thought of his sweet mother, his loving but weak-willed father. He thought of his father's eventual mental anguish and the havoc he wreaked upon the family. He thought of the royal family, they all meant nothing. Unending names that had to do with the ridiculous beasts they loved so much. And he thought of that strange woman from the South.  
  
And he plunged in to the dirty water, hoping that it was deep. He wanted the talking tree to be wrong, he wanted the Anduin to swirl up above his head and bury him beneath its cold shroud, to wrap him in the swirling wreckage and forever obscure him from the malicious, hate-filled eyes of all of the beings of Middle earth.  
  
He crossed the river, though, as Treebeard watched, and finally drew himself up on the far bank. The black chipped stairs of Orthanc stood before him, he did not know what epithet should be carved upon them for him.  
  
Here was the inglorious end of an insignificant man of Rohan.  
  
Here the soul of a deluded, power-hungry mortal collapsed in upon itself.  
  
Here a weak man succumbed to the cruelties of the world.  
  
Here I died.  
  
Gríma the Wormtongue, man of Rohan, pulled himself to his feet and ascended the stairs. His robes were heavy, his eyes heavier. His hair clung to his scalp and face in dark snakes, accentuating the wan features. His blue eyes, still clouded and pitiful, raised to the door in time to see a white hand emerge, grasping for him. It met with his soaked garments and pulled him harshly in.  
  
He was prepared. He deserved whatever he got. His mind filled with masochistic wishes, his essence crumpled and slunk off to an entirely different side of his brain. All that was left was the worthless husk of a beaten man.  
  
  
  
~  
  
[Author's Notes: I did more research for this chapter than any other one. I went over the chapter, "The Hunt for the Ring" in Unfinished Tales, for Gríma's interaction with the Nazgûl. (Dialogue is taken straight from the book, more or less.) Then, of course, I referenced The Two Towers for the coming to Isengard. Dialogue is borrowed from that book, as well. He is on the ground speaking to the Witch King in Unfinished Tales, yet he -rides- into Isengard.. okay.. so I did what I could with that. If you notice any inconsistencies or geographical mistakes, please let me know!  
  
Special thanks to Alexa for attempting to help me, at least, so I didn't have to walk all the way up the stairs! ;-)  
  
Disclaimer: I own none of these characters, nor the incidents. All belong to J.R.R. Tolkien.] 


	9. Sanctuary

Chapter Nine: Sanctuary (III. 2924)  
  
"Teima." Breathless, Lómëí pulled on the reins. The Ata halted. No matter how many times she had approached the city, it never ceased to strike admiration in her soul.  
  
Haldanor gapped in awe. Never, in his life, had he seen anything like it. In all of his travels as a merchant, all of the wide and far away lands he had seen.. he had never beheld anything as magnificent as the oasis that shimmered on the brink of the desert. The walls that stood around the city of Teima seemed to reach the very heavens, shining a brilliant pearl in the late-midday sun. Several tall green fronds of trees feathered around the outskirts.  
  
"Where are all of the traders?" He squinted, shifted in his seat.  
  
"I do not know."  
  
Something bothered her. Teima was the heart and life-force of this area of the desert, she had never seen it without swarms of merchants, mercenaries, religious folk, farmers and thieves bustling. The doors were closed, there was silence. It had been so long since she had been there, and it seemed the political situation had always been unstable. There were always small tribes attacking one another, always some strife plaguing the people. Her eyes scanned the tops of the walls, eventually finding what she feared. An archer leaned over, his helmet glistened in the sun.  
  
The man called down to her in words Haldanor barely heard. Lómëí called back up to him in a clear, loud voice. "Marhabahn! Lómëí men-dowen Erindu!" There was a momentary silence before he yelled back down.  
  
"Al-rahk makh? Bran alap?" There was mistrust in his voice. The conversation carried on that way for a good while, as Haldanor began to become very worried. There was little food left and virtually no water. If they weren't permitted entrance into the city.. well..  
  
The doors were thrown open, Lómëí urged the Ata on through the monstrous silver walls, she slouched noticeably for a moment before stiffening her back. She whispered to Haldanor. "Look proud, say little. They are expecting an attack soon from a coalition of neighboring tribes. They will endure, as they have always done.. but still it brings great fear every time war looms on the horizon. Not good for trade." He nodded, straightened his back. What had ever possessed him to leave from the safety of known trade routes? It was madness here, the heat, the violence, the inhospitably dry land.  
  
A man approached them, motioning with one hand for the reins of the Ata, which Lómëí dutifully handed over. "Marhabahn." She nodded at him. "Marhabahn.. B-shwana weishalma." He smiled curtly, pulling on the reins.  
  
The man guided them into the stables. Haldanor had never seen the woman look so deadly serious, not even the tiniest amused smile broke her lips. Her chin was angled up, eyes taking in every aspect of the city. The beast rested beneath them on a floor of dead fronds, she swung her legs to the side and bounded off of it. He followed suit, surprising himself with the agility he could dismount the creature. The strange man who had led them there jabbered away in an odd tongue to Lómëí, who in turn spoke in a controlled, measured tone. Many seasons had passed since last she spoke the language of the inhabitants of Teima. What Westron was to the North, Kntahra was to the South, a common a tongue (for it literally meant, "Little bridge") for travelers.  
  
Haldanor stood behind her, leaned forward, whispered into her ear. "Lómëí, what is going on?" His wrung his hands in distress, eyes darting from the side of her face to the man who tended the Ata.  
  
"There is war on the horizon, as I said. We will stay here for several nights. Once the tribes throw all of their spears and hack at the outside walls with their weapons, they will tire and slink back out to sand dunes. The doors will be thrown open, Teima will rejoice, and we will trade!" She smiled, turned to face him. "I have seen this time after time. As the seasons revolve in the north, the cycle of the lives and squabbles of men repeat. Teima will fall one day, I suppose, but feel no fear. Today we will bathe and sleep, tonight we will feast and join the warriors."  
  
His face blanched, he swallowed hard. "Warriors? I am not warrior.." Haldanor knew his power did not lie in his frail arms, but in his crafty mind. He loved history and tales of far away, and he supposed that was what drew him to becoming a merchant.  
  
For years, since he was but a very young man, he had crossed from Gondor to Rohan, ventured into the west sometimes. He traveled with a host of fellow merchants of varying allegiances, some Rohirrim, some Gondorian. They had mocked him for the entirety of their journeys, but Haldanor remained convinced that just over the next rise of hill, just through the next glade, there would be something of unparalleled beauty and worth that he could acquire for a mere pittance of its price. And he would return to Rohan with it, make a sale to one of the noblemen. He would then have the money to collect what he truly desired: scrolls, books, tales of old recorded in writing. There were few Rohirrim who could read, and Haldanor prided himself on the ability. He wanted to live in Minas Tirith, work at the libraries, hiding in the darkness and shadow, have his life lit by flickering candles, to smell like melted wax and ancient papers and the musky, winding halls.  
  
~  
  
She leaned back into the water, feeling it surround her. It was beyond being merely hot, it was sweltering. A dense haze of steam filled the entire bath, no other figures moved in the wide expanses. She felt the smooth inlaid tiles beneath her skin. As her eyes closed, she gave herself over to serenity, her head disappeared beneath the scented waters. All was silent for a moment before her weary senses caught up. The her heart beating, blood coursing and pumping underneath skin, stomach churning with dull hunger pains. Bubbles of air snaked their way through her hair, now out of its braids, floating in a dark halo about her head. She was weightless, enshrouded in the searing moisture.  
  
It was good to be back in Teima. She loved it with a passion though her father's people were from Erindu originally. They had become outcasts long ago, for some since forgotten travesty. The exiles had wandered through the deserts of Harad, into the far west, to the beaches and beyond to an tiny island not many knew of. This all was previous to her father's time, for he was the child of a mixture of the dusky warriors of Erindu and the olive- skinned intellectia of the sea civilization.  
  
But Teima felt like home, many times she ventured with her mother to the trading outpost, had been amazed at the oasis that sprawled before her. It was welcome to enter the city after days in the desert. Half of her childhood was spent in the west, half of her time she traveled with her father.  
  
Still she felt an exile, though. Her grasp of the language was slipping, the culture was ever-evolving and new tribes were cross-pollinating with others. Two mortal enemies in the time of her youth were now one common tribe. Chaos reigned in Harad, yet it was not without charm. The lives of men passed like the dunes in the desert, eroding, changing with time.  
  
She sat up, leaned against the side of the bath. Several women disrobed in the mist, near the door and lowered themselves into the water, taking no notice of Lómëí, who sat a good distance away. Their voices chattered quietly, muted by the fog and absorbed by the potted plants that decorated the room.  
  
Her arms and legs floated in the hot water, she moved her hands slowly from side to side, feeling the swirls of waves curl between her fingers.  
  
~  
  
Haldanor walked slowly through the narrow street, followed by a herd of giggling children. They shouted up at him, pulled at his robes. He shook them away, making sure to keep his purse close to his side and one hand on the hilt of the sword Lómëí had presented to him several nights before.  
  
Gloaming time. What had she called it, "Me'esaw Alquir"? The temperature was fading slightly, along with the light. It was incredibly soothing. The sky burned amber and vermilion, blending with sapphire. Smells from all corners inundated him- spices, food, the sand and heat of the desert, the strange candies the noisy children were sucking on. It felt good to be clean again and dress himself in washed, cooler robes. Though he felt absurd dressing as a local, the kids seemed more fascinated with his alabaster skin than anything. They grabbed for the hand that was not gripping the sword tightly, trying to examine it. He was partially amused but more annoyed by their antics. They had never seen one with skin so deathly before. But his hair was as theirs, dark and shimmering... surely he could not be one of the Mniw-htr their parents taught them of, the horse lords from the north that made war on their people and stole children for immoral means?  
  
The Teiman children finally left his side in interest of other spot, and he was alone, meandering through the mostly quiet streets. Strains of a musical instrument floated hauntingly on the air, every once in a while a bird or some other kind of beast would call out. Eventually he found himself standing in front of the building Lómëí told him to meet her at, and entered. He was immediately weighed down by the humidity of the place- it was a bath. He started, spun on his heel. He could not beat to enter such a place. Two women near the door- naked- smiled curiously at him. Haldanor halted a moment, looking into their kind brown eyes. One of them pointed to the far corner of the room, nodded, and spoke in Kntahra.  
  
"You look for the strange woman?" She continued smiling.  
  
Haldanor smiled back, perplexed. He had no idea what she was saying, but had a suspicion that the pointing was directed towards where he could find Lómëí. With a deep sigh, he summoned his courage and plunged into the silver depths of the room. The tiling beneath his feet was exquisite, he had never seen anything like it. Fired, smooth clay in various eye-piercing colors. Murals painted on the walls reenacted what looked to be common scenes from the lives of the Teimans. On one, a bird of prey dove to a bed of reeds, while several androgenous people watched on with sly, secretive smiles. They were cloaked in the same style robes that covered his pale, slender body.  
  
"Westu hal!" a female voice called to him, he turned to see Lómëí reclined in the water, her back to him, her head craned around and a tiny smile on her lips. Her hair was limp and wet, stringy, no longer in braids. She smoothed it back, unconsciously pulled the hair back over her slightly pointed ears.  
  
"Mae govannen. Or, what is the proper greeting here?" Haldanor stood his ground. He felt incredibly uncomfortable.  
  
"'Marhabahn'. But the formal greeting is 'B-shwana weishalma.' It once was different, last time I was in Teima. The languages evolve so quickly." Her gaze dropped from his eyes to the tiles, then searched back up his body slowly. He squirmed under her contemplation, feeling her eyes grope him. "You look very... native." Her gray stare pierced into his, his breath failed for a moment.  
  
"It was what you left for me to wear." He whispered.  
  
She laughed loudly, the women near the door glanced to her momentarily, Haldanor couldn't help but smile. "Indeed. Yes. Now it is time for you to experience more things of a 'native' nature. We will eat." She lifted herself from the bath, water streamed down her stocky body, splashed from her thick hair as she wrung it. Haldanor noticed the scars which ran across her arms and legs, a scar on her soft stomach. He decided to not ask.  
  
Lómëí continued giggling as he turned his head away, blush creeping into his silver face. He only looked up once she had wrapped herself in a gauzy white robe.  
  
"I am dying of hunger, I fear." He laughed nervously, wondering what sort of things these Southrons ate. He had heard all sorts of terrifying stories in his travels.  
  
She smiled at him as she slung her scabbard over a shoulder.  
  
"After the meal, we will go to stand watch with the rest of the warriors."  
  
"I already have warned you that I am no-"  
  
"Yes, I am aware of that. Nor am I a warrior that can be compared to the Haradrim any longer. Once, perhaps, but now I am more of an object of distraction for my novelity of a half-breed." She held out her bare arms, motioning to the scars. "But it is of no concern. This is a good-will gesture to the dwellers of Teima, that we come in peace to them and mean Teima no harm. The tribes will not break the outside walls." She smiled, put a calloused but soft hand to his cheek. "There is no danger here, I have been inside the city countless times when attacks were imminent. I do not know why they worry so much. No perspective, I suppose."  
  
Lómëí hated herself for sounding that way, as if the lives of men meant nothing. Of course they had perspective, better than one she could have. Just because she had outlived all the people she had known, did not necessarily make her intelligent or experienced. Her mother had taught her humility, and she feared she was losing it in favor of becoming a bitter immortal.  
  
Haldanor nodded slowly, hoping to all the powers of Middle earth that he would not have to prove himself in battle that night. The woman's hand fell, caressing his arm and finally resting inside his hand. She led him from the steamy building into the quickly darkening streets. Crowds thronged about, mostly men with swords in the same design as his companion's. They were grim, but Haldanor was at east. Lómëí had said it was safe, and she would know better than he, a Rohirrim with no expose to the South.  
  
Lómëí felt a sinking fear in her heart, moved to her gut. Something was different with this, the air crackled with absolute terror. Terrible things would be unleashed, and she had dragged Haldanor into the center of some kind of horrible war. And hated herself for presuming to know her mother country so well as to dismiss the obvious signs that something -bad- would happen before sunrise.  
  
[Author's Notes:  
  
Liqua Mire: Yes, there are many interpretations of where the origins of "Gálmód" come from, I've seen everything from 'mind of the gallows' to 'lewd and licentious.' I'm doing research on it right now and will include it in the next chapter featuring a mention of him. I'm going primarily with a 'mind of the gallows.' (see chapter six: it might have been too subtle, I'll mention it again later.)  
  
Sorry this chapter took so long, I've been working on another couple stories and my website. Hope y'all enjoyed! And bet your bippy that the next Lómëí/Haldanor chapter will be crammed full of gorey, battling goodness!  
  
The language: It's a hybrid of Arabic and Aramaic. 'Teima' is inspired from Byzantium/Constantinople/Istanbul, whatever you want to call it. Had thirty foot high walls, twenty feet thick...] 


End file.
